Remember that meltdown I had over the weekend? (You don't? Well, I guarantee ya, my family does.) Turns out, it was quite unnecessary, as most of my meltdowns usually are.
Saturday's meltdown was mainly over the fact that I was nearly 5 weeks behind in Algebra. At the beginning of the semester she gave us a schedule and told us that in order to finish all 180 topics by finals week, we needed to do 12 topics a week. Okay, no big. Except that the website told me I had 231 topics to finish, therefore I needed to do 16 topics a week. To someone who isn't mathtarded and doesn't have 3 kids and a husband and two jobs, this probably wouldn't be a big deal, adding 4 topics a week, but yeah, well, haven't we already established that I am a big whiney baby? Yeah. It was a HUGE deal. I could never get caught up and just got steadily further and further behind. A few days ago I emailed my instructor, something I should've done a long time ago because turns out, the company who runs the website updated the cirriculum and added 51 extra topics and the instructors didn't realize it. She told me they would be removing the extra topics tomorrow, so now I'm only about a week behind!!! I'm happier'n a bulimic in a room fulla tongue depressors.
This week I only have to do this and last week's Algebra topics, write 8-10 questions/comments about Edgar Allan Poe and "The Fall of the House of Usher" which will be no big deal since I just wrote a paper over both and maybe, just maybe I'll get a week or two ahead in Lit as well. I do have to go to Macro tomorrow night, though, since I missed last week because of the fundraising auction and will miss next week to see my daughter's stage debut.
I got my grade for the last Macro test, by the way - a big fat 64%. But hey, you'll see me shedding no tears. I have a 73% in the class. You really can't get more average than that. One more bad test, though, and you'll see tears, though. I'm still praying that something miraculous happens in that class.
Four weeks until finals. I can hardly contain my glee at the mere prospect of this hellish semester ending. I am going to try to enroll for next semester tomorrow. If things go the way I want them to (ha! Like that happens often) I will take 13 hours next semester:
Intro to Mass Communications - The class all MassComm majors are supposed to take their first semester. Oops. It's only my third. It's one hour a week. Like Freshman Orientation only more mass-ly communicative. Or something like that.
Beginning Photography - I am so stoked about taking this class I can hardly stand it.
Photo Lab - Even more stoked there's a lab!
History of Film - This is one of those 3-hour, one day a week classes, but instead of 6-9 like Macro is this semester, History of Film is from 1-4. I won't be missing any evenings with my kids!
Creative Writing - This is the only class I'm taking that isn't actually a course requirement, so it's actually counting toward nothing other than the fact I want to take it. I need to do something fun and for me next semester and since getting lipo and a boob job while in Disney World on the Tower of Terror with Zach Braff who just happens to like kissing my face is out, I'll just take Creative Writing.
Survey of American Literature II - Part Deux of the AmerLit class I'm taking this semester, same instructor and my only online class next semester. I just hope and pray she runs Part Deux like she's running Part Uno (yep, I know I switched languages - because I don't know how to spell the French word for "one")(I can say it, I can't spell it)(Yes, I know where Google is on the Internet)(No, I don't want to look it up) because it's predictable and I'm learning something and I'm almost enjoying it, strangely enough.
So there ya have it - let's just hope I don't fail Macro and have to take it again next semester.
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Monday Abby stayed home from school because her face was all swollen up from her sinuses. She's always had allergies and sinus issues, but never this bad. She laid on the couch with warm washcloths on her face all morning, watching SpongeBob through two little peepholes, bless her little heart. She's better, but still not 100%. She does not have silver snot, however.
Today, when I got home from work, after I met Mrs. Principal so she could load up the time machine, I went in to change clothes and realized I had the beginnings of a headache. The internet was having issues with both computers, so I took that as a sign from God that I needed to veg instead of solve linear equations. And veg I did. When KD and Sam walked in the door from school (Ab was at play practice) I was semi-conscious on the couch. Sam curled up next to me and KD crawled into the recliner. I dozed off and when I woke up I looked around and didn't immediately see KD. I finally found her curled up in the chair, tears streaming down her face. Of course, feeling horrendous maternal guilt for dozing when there was obviously an issue with my youngest child, I hauled myself up off the couch to figure out what was wrong. She quietly said her eyes wouldn't quit cwying and her tummy was wumbly and her head huut weal bad. I scooped her up and sat down with her on my lap and felt heat emanating from her. Bless her little heart, she was running a fever and hey, just send that Mother of the Year trophy to my post office box, will ya?
All three of us were cuddled up on the couch - Kady soaking up my extra pats and rubs due to extreme guilt and Sam pouting because I won't let him skip school and repeatedly saying that I was punishing him for being the healthy child - when Paul and Abby got home. Paul took over Kady duty while I threw in a load of laundry and made Paul a lovingly microwaved homemade meal of Schwan's chicken pot pies. Fortunately Abby can nuke a HotPocket and Sam thinks Tyson chicken patties are manna from Heaven.
Kady's crashed on the couch right now, still slightly fever-y and I guess she won't be getting that flu shot tomorrow. And while I'd love to stay home from work yet another day this week, I guess I'll take Mom up on that offer to stay with KD tomorrow while I run back and forth across the county, going to work, going to the school to pick up Abby and Sam, taking them to the dr's office for flu shots, taking them back to school, enrolling for next semester, working at the college THEN going to my night class. I'm already tired just thinking about it.
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Yesterday was our Thanksgiving dinner at DHS. Today they put out the leftovers in the kitchen and I wasn't in the mood for turkey so I just heated up some broccoli rice casserole only to discover that the warmth I was feeling in my guts was from the jalapeno peppers the preparer had added to what would've been a perfectly good casserole WITHOUT the peppers. Omg, that was a bad, bad trick to play on unsuspecting government employees. We're already cranky as it is - adding jalapenos to broccoli just adds to the agitation.
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It's the first full week of November and I have already managed to fill up every single weekend until the end of the year. HOW does that happen?? Between son's birthday, 3 parades (in one day, no less), parties, volunteering to take pictures of children with Santa at a drive-thru state park light display event thing, finals, youngest daughter's birthday, a trip to Branson to Silver Dollar City because that's where the real Santa is and we can't miss seeing the real one, and oh yeah, Christmas, I'm a busy girl until 2008. Who am I kidding, it's going to spill over into 2008.
BUT in 2008 there will (hopefully) be no Macroeconomics.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto
Abby and TotOne are in the elementary school's little theatre production this year. This is a big thing for my formerly shy Abby, the child we never thought would speak above a whisper, the child who was a PreK dropout because of her debilitating shyness. Since I am a former drama queen (although my family would argue the "former" statement) I am ecstatic over her absolute love for the stage. She's even talking about being in Speech/Drama when she goes across the street next year to the Big School. Be still my heart. Some mothers go berzerkers over cheerleading; I'll be one of those crazed drama mamas.
So when the elementary principal asked me if Tater and I would make a time machine for the play, I said yes, I would, but Tater was too busy and that Paul and I would take care of it. I know, I know, that was rather silly of me, wasn't it? I haven't shaved my legs in weeks because I don't have time, I sleep about 4 hours a night, if that, these days, and there is what I fear to be a permanent imprint of my husband on our couch because I don't even have time to sleep with him these days. So what in the world made me think I had time to construct a time machine? It's the insanity, I'm telling you. I'm utterly farking insane.
I tried to protect my little sister from the drama involved, because I really thought I could do it, but I eventually caved and finally admitted that uhm, I had uhhhhh, "Itoldtheprincipalthatwe'dmakeatimemachinefortheplaypleasedon'tbemad." She was strangely calm, but I think she was using some fancy schmancy breathing exercise to keep from ripping me limb from limb. Then she calmly said, "Let me call Mrs. Princpal and tell her that neither one of us are capable of doing this. I will take care of this and from now on, Kristin, sweetie, JUST SAY NO."
But then even she felt convicted and said she thought we could do it, but if I ever EVER agree to building anything for anyone EVER again, I am totally on my own.
And just for the record, in case you were planning on going out to find one this weekend, refrigerators do not come in boxes anymore. Now you know.
Thank God recliners still do. A friend that works for a furniture store deposited two gigantic boxes on Tater's front driveway last week. I stopped by this weekend to put them in my van, but they are so enormous that I couldn't even get them in the sliding door. So Paul had to get a trailer and haul them home on a trailer because his truck has a cap on the bed and essentially he just has a really long car with a trunk for all the good that bed is. I had to call the principal this morning and tell her that someone with a real truck was going to have to come pick up the time machine at my house tomorrow afternoon because alas, it is not an actual working time machine and I can't just hit the painted-on lever and warp down to the school. Where are Doc Brown and Marty McFly when you need them?
Last night he and I painted the boxes metallic silver. Of course, it was dark outside and I discovered this morning that we didn't do a real bangup job and as soon as I got home from work today touched up the light spots and then painted the insides of the boxes where the door will eventually be.
I also got delightfully high. See, the boxes are pretty deep and I had to lean over the side to paint down in there and yeah, I lost a few brain cells doing it. The best part? In addition to my silver index and middle fingers on my right hand, I also just blew my nose and blew out silver snot.
I'm Kilroy.
So when the elementary principal asked me if Tater and I would make a time machine for the play, I said yes, I would, but Tater was too busy and that Paul and I would take care of it. I know, I know, that was rather silly of me, wasn't it? I haven't shaved my legs in weeks because I don't have time, I sleep about 4 hours a night, if that, these days, and there is what I fear to be a permanent imprint of my husband on our couch because I don't even have time to sleep with him these days. So what in the world made me think I had time to construct a time machine? It's the insanity, I'm telling you. I'm utterly farking insane.
I tried to protect my little sister from the drama involved, because I really thought I could do it, but I eventually caved and finally admitted that uhm, I had uhhhhh, "Itoldtheprincipalthatwe'dmakeatimemachinefortheplaypleasedon'tbemad." She was strangely calm, but I think she was using some fancy schmancy breathing exercise to keep from ripping me limb from limb. Then she calmly said, "Let me call Mrs. Princpal and tell her that neither one of us are capable of doing this. I will take care of this and from now on, Kristin, sweetie, JUST SAY NO."
But then even she felt convicted and said she thought we could do it, but if I ever EVER agree to building anything for anyone EVER again, I am totally on my own.
And just for the record, in case you were planning on going out to find one this weekend, refrigerators do not come in boxes anymore. Now you know.
Thank God recliners still do. A friend that works for a furniture store deposited two gigantic boxes on Tater's front driveway last week. I stopped by this weekend to put them in my van, but they are so enormous that I couldn't even get them in the sliding door. So Paul had to get a trailer and haul them home on a trailer because his truck has a cap on the bed and essentially he just has a really long car with a trunk for all the good that bed is. I had to call the principal this morning and tell her that someone with a real truck was going to have to come pick up the time machine at my house tomorrow afternoon because alas, it is not an actual working time machine and I can't just hit the painted-on lever and warp down to the school. Where are Doc Brown and Marty McFly when you need them?
Last night he and I painted the boxes metallic silver. Of course, it was dark outside and I discovered this morning that we didn't do a real bangup job and as soon as I got home from work today touched up the light spots and then painted the insides of the boxes where the door will eventually be.
I also got delightfully high. See, the boxes are pretty deep and I had to lean over the side to paint down in there and yeah, I lost a few brain cells doing it. The best part? In addition to my silver index and middle fingers on my right hand, I also just blew my nose and blew out silver snot.
I'm Kilroy.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Chuck E. Cheese Halloween possums
I would rather have my toenails ripped off by rabid ferrets on crack than visit Chuck E. Cheese with 8 kids. Well, any number of kids for that matter, but it just so happens that tonight there were 8 of them. I always leave there with a headache. Always. No wonder they serve beer - no sane parent could withstand the misery that is Chuck E. Cheese without alcohol.
Tonight's trip to hell was for TotTwo's birthday party and that, of course, set Sam to thinking about his upcoming birthday in two weeks. He had that look on his face and the mom in me knew what he was thinking - heck, the flush from recent gigantic robotic mouse, more caffeine than he's had in his entire almost 9 years and enough flashing lights to send an epileptic into a grand mal seizure to beat the band was still on his little freckled cheeks and I knew he was planning his own birthday adventure. Oh, but I, being the spoilsport of all motherdom said, "You're not planning a party at stinky ol' Chuck E. Cheese, are you? Because I hear that it's totally so like, out these days." And because he's the middle child and ever so eager to please he replied with a shrug of his shoulders and a simple, "What? Chuck E. Cheese? Nah. Let's just go bowling." I so won.
And for the 90 bazillion tickets my kids got from playing God only knows how many video games, they got: Abby - a red pom pom that she literally whipped her sister with the entire ride home and eventually got it taken away from her; Kady - a pink and silver tiara that was broken by her cousin who was all hopped up on the methamphetamine they put in Chuck E. Cheese pizza within about 2 minutes of ownership; and Sam - a foam dart launcher that is actually pretty cool because he managed to smack his Grammy right above the eye from across the restaurant.
I'm just glad Sam "wants" to go bowling for his party and that Kady wants to have her three "bestest gowfwends in the wowd ovew to pway" for her birthday. My gosh, after Abby's slumber party where the girls popped locked and dropped, I don't think I can handle another wild party this year.
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Friday night Paul, Tater and I loaded up and met up with 14 other people from the Casino That Shall Not Be Named to go through the corn maze. I really had way too much homework to go and since Mom had the kids all night I hated to miss an opportunity of quiet Algebra time, but Paul seemed so excited about it I couldn't not go. So I dragged my sister along for fun. My gosh, if it hadn't been for her, I'd have slit my wrists or drowned myself. Wow, it's a good thing I never actually worked there - they are a bunch of poopoo heads! I mean, we're talking no laughing, no joking - heck we even made it through the corn maze in 20 minutes! When we went as a family back in October TotTwo and I got lost in one section for 45 minutes. I think we were in there nearly 2 hours. But man, these casino people were all business - it was like we were being graded on corn maze proficiency.
When we met a small group at the casino Tater and I were acting like total goofasses, I'll admit, but my gosh, someone had to have fun and it was obvious no one else was going to. Paul said we were supposed to meet up with someone named Amanda. I asked, "Amanda who?" and before Paul could reply, Tater said, "Amanda Hugankiss" and we both exploded into hysterical juvenile laughter that immediately pissed Paul off for some reason. As we were driving later I said, "Wow, honey, your friends sure are not as fun as I thought they'd be." He never took his eyes off the road when he said, "Well, maybe it's because you're an ass." Ouch. That stung. So I pouted for awhile, then decided that pouting was not fun and started being an ass again. I gotta say, we definitely had more fun as asses.
After the maze we went to Pizza Hut (with a few casino people, namely Amanda Hugankiss and her husband that we named Ben Dover because we're asses like that) (however, Amanda and "Ben" thought we were funny even though no one else did) and then on to Grand Lake Casino from there. We'd been there about 45 minutes when I started feeling really crappy, like so tired I couldn't hold my eyes open, achey and just generally blechy feeling. We left and I came home to crash like the assy ol' party pooper I am. The next morning I woke up feeling like I'd been run over with a backhoe and the feeling has continued. I'm sure that led to my ultimate massive hysterical breakdown yesterday.
Today has been better. Well, except for the Chuck E. Cheese thing.
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Just now I was sitting here in my office, typing away at this post and enjoying the absence of any math problems in front of my face for a few stolen moments when I heard some clattering outside on the carport. We feed the cats on the freezer to keep Jake from eating their food and figured it was one of them havinga late night snack. Then I looked up to find this in the window sill:
For a few seconds I didn't quite comprehend what it was. The fur was lighter than our cats' and it wasn't registering what it was. Until it showed it's pointy face - it was a possum. I hollered at Paul, "Hey! Paul! There's a possum in the window! Grab my camera off the table and get the gun!"- because even though I'm a redneck, I'm a blogger first and foremost and knew there must be photo documentation of any critters here at Diva Ranch. We stood out here in my office for quite awhile, watching it, snapping pictures and marveling at its lack of fear. Finally I turned to Paul and said, "Umm...aren't you going to kill it?" He replied dryly, "Yuh. I was just waiting for you to get all the shots you wanted." Isn't he sweet?
Then he smacked it on the heck with a gigantic stick. If you are an animal lover, particularly a lover of possums, do not look at the next picture.
Let this be a lesson to any critter looking to get into mischief at my house - you will end up dead and on my blog. You've been warned.
I'm just glad the kids were already in bed. Had they been awake there'd have been tears and a funeral. As it was, Paul just threw him over the fence and went back to watching CourtTV.
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And because I'm sure y'all are anxiously waiting, here are a few pics of the kids in their Halloween costumes.
Abby was a bag lady this year, complete with shopping cart. The shopping cart seemed like a good idea at first - until I realized that I was the one loading and unloading that mother at every stop.
She was a pretty convincing bag lady, methinks - considering that when she went wheeling her cart into the lobby of the administration building at the college, the ladies in the business office thought she was a real homeless person.
Sam was a wizard and I gotta say, it was awful cute for a last-minute, oh-my-gosh his Halloween costume doesn't fit thing. Tater bought it on a clearance rack at the Disney Store a few years ago, so technically he was supposed to be the Mickey sorcerer from Fantasia, but....
.... if I had a nickel for every time I heard him holler "Wingardium Leviosa!" and "Accio [everything on the face of the earth, including at one point 'a gigantic grizzly bear]" I'd be a rich woman tonight.
Kady was Goth this year. I wish she'd have gotten on board with it last year when the other two dressed Goth, but oh well.
It's hard to remain Goth-y when you're five and wearing chocolate and pizza all over your deathly white face, though. I guess this is why you don't see a lot of Goth in Kindergarten.
Tonight's trip to hell was for TotTwo's birthday party and that, of course, set Sam to thinking about his upcoming birthday in two weeks. He had that look on his face and the mom in me knew what he was thinking - heck, the flush from recent gigantic robotic mouse, more caffeine than he's had in his entire almost 9 years and enough flashing lights to send an epileptic into a grand mal seizure to beat the band was still on his little freckled cheeks and I knew he was planning his own birthday adventure. Oh, but I, being the spoilsport of all motherdom said, "You're not planning a party at stinky ol' Chuck E. Cheese, are you? Because I hear that it's totally so like, out these days." And because he's the middle child and ever so eager to please he replied with a shrug of his shoulders and a simple, "What? Chuck E. Cheese? Nah. Let's just go bowling." I so won.
And for the 90 bazillion tickets my kids got from playing God only knows how many video games, they got: Abby - a red pom pom that she literally whipped her sister with the entire ride home and eventually got it taken away from her; Kady - a pink and silver tiara that was broken by her cousin who was all hopped up on the methamphetamine they put in Chuck E. Cheese pizza within about 2 minutes of ownership; and Sam - a foam dart launcher that is actually pretty cool because he managed to smack his Grammy right above the eye from across the restaurant.
I'm just glad Sam "wants" to go bowling for his party and that Kady wants to have her three "bestest gowfwends in the wowd ovew to pway" for her birthday. My gosh, after Abby's slumber party where the girls popped locked and dropped, I don't think I can handle another wild party this year.
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Friday night Paul, Tater and I loaded up and met up with 14 other people from the Casino That Shall Not Be Named to go through the corn maze. I really had way too much homework to go and since Mom had the kids all night I hated to miss an opportunity of quiet Algebra time, but Paul seemed so excited about it I couldn't not go. So I dragged my sister along for fun. My gosh, if it hadn't been for her, I'd have slit my wrists or drowned myself. Wow, it's a good thing I never actually worked there - they are a bunch of poopoo heads! I mean, we're talking no laughing, no joking - heck we even made it through the corn maze in 20 minutes! When we went as a family back in October TotTwo and I got lost in one section for 45 minutes. I think we were in there nearly 2 hours. But man, these casino people were all business - it was like we were being graded on corn maze proficiency.
When we met a small group at the casino Tater and I were acting like total goofasses, I'll admit, but my gosh, someone had to have fun and it was obvious no one else was going to. Paul said we were supposed to meet up with someone named Amanda. I asked, "Amanda who?" and before Paul could reply, Tater said, "Amanda Hugankiss" and we both exploded into hysterical juvenile laughter that immediately pissed Paul off for some reason. As we were driving later I said, "Wow, honey, your friends sure are not as fun as I thought they'd be." He never took his eyes off the road when he said, "Well, maybe it's because you're an ass." Ouch. That stung. So I pouted for awhile, then decided that pouting was not fun and started being an ass again. I gotta say, we definitely had more fun as asses.
After the maze we went to Pizza Hut (with a few casino people, namely Amanda Hugankiss and her husband that we named Ben Dover because we're asses like that) (however, Amanda and "Ben" thought we were funny even though no one else did) and then on to Grand Lake Casino from there. We'd been there about 45 minutes when I started feeling really crappy, like so tired I couldn't hold my eyes open, achey and just generally blechy feeling. We left and I came home to crash like the assy ol' party pooper I am. The next morning I woke up feeling like I'd been run over with a backhoe and the feeling has continued. I'm sure that led to my ultimate massive hysterical breakdown yesterday.
Today has been better. Well, except for the Chuck E. Cheese thing.
------------------------
Just now I was sitting here in my office, typing away at this post and enjoying the absence of any math problems in front of my face for a few stolen moments when I heard some clattering outside on the carport. We feed the cats on the freezer to keep Jake from eating their food and figured it was one of them havinga late night snack. Then I looked up to find this in the window sill:
For a few seconds I didn't quite comprehend what it was. The fur was lighter than our cats' and it wasn't registering what it was. Until it showed it's pointy face - it was a possum. I hollered at Paul, "Hey! Paul! There's a possum in the window! Grab my camera off the table and get the gun!"- because even though I'm a redneck, I'm a blogger first and foremost and knew there must be photo documentation of any critters here at Diva Ranch. We stood out here in my office for quite awhile, watching it, snapping pictures and marveling at its lack of fear. Finally I turned to Paul and said, "Umm...aren't you going to kill it?" He replied dryly, "Yuh. I was just waiting for you to get all the shots you wanted." Isn't he sweet?
Then he smacked it on the heck with a gigantic stick. If you are an animal lover, particularly a lover of possums, do not look at the next picture.
Let this be a lesson to any critter looking to get into mischief at my house - you will end up dead and on my blog. You've been warned.
I'm just glad the kids were already in bed. Had they been awake there'd have been tears and a funeral. As it was, Paul just threw him over the fence and went back to watching CourtTV.
----------------------------
And because I'm sure y'all are anxiously waiting, here are a few pics of the kids in their Halloween costumes.
Abby was a bag lady this year, complete with shopping cart. The shopping cart seemed like a good idea at first - until I realized that I was the one loading and unloading that mother at every stop.
She was a pretty convincing bag lady, methinks - considering that when she went wheeling her cart into the lobby of the administration building at the college, the ladies in the business office thought she was a real homeless person.
Sam was a wizard and I gotta say, it was awful cute for a last-minute, oh-my-gosh his Halloween costume doesn't fit thing. Tater bought it on a clearance rack at the Disney Store a few years ago, so technically he was supposed to be the Mickey sorcerer from Fantasia, but....
.... if I had a nickel for every time I heard him holler "Wingardium Leviosa!" and "Accio [everything on the face of the earth, including at one point 'a gigantic grizzly bear]" I'd be a rich woman tonight.
Kady was Goth this year. I wish she'd have gotten on board with it last year when the other two dressed Goth, but oh well.
It's hard to remain Goth-y when you're five and wearing chocolate and pizza all over your deathly white face, though. I guess this is why you don't see a lot of Goth in Kindergarten.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Average and dehydrated
I am having a very bad day. I've actually had a whole fracking caboodle of bad days.
A mere one day past deadline, at 2am, I wearily turned in my barely six-page paper on "Gothicism in American Literature" which analyzed "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Poe. The instructor gives all assignments a one-week grace period at the price of a drop in one letter grade, but waived the grade penalty for this paper. I think I love her. The paper wasn't my best work, but at this point in the semester I have abandoned the Pollyanna -ish thoughts of maintaining the 3.75 GPA from last semester and I'm just shooting for passing all of the classes. At this point, Cs are SO acceptable. And I never, ever, EVER thought that thought would ever be in my head. Ever. I have become average and frankly, I'm pretty okay with it. In fact, below average is looking better and better.
I got behind in everything because of Halloween. I know, I know, blame it on an innocent pagan holiday and use it as a scapegoat, but seriously, it really was Halloween that made me behind. See, we were sent an email at work that "encouraged" us to dress up for Halloween and in my mind "encouraged" meant "show up in costume or else." I was going to go with my original plan of a loose interpretation of Tracey Turnblad from the movie Hairspray because well, fat chicks are pretty limited on costumes at Halloween time - I mean, dressing up like Paris Hilton is out, as well as dressing as a French maid or Catwoman. We're pretty much destined to be the Cookie Monsters, Grimaces and fat old ladies with walkers come October 31st. But the Friday before Halloween, the day I am off EVERY WEEK, the day that everyone in my department KNOWS I am not going to be in, it was decided that Child Welfare was going to all dress as scarecrows. 'Scuse me? Scarecrows? My initial response when the other aide told me on Monday - a mere TWO DAYS before Halloween - was, "I don't think so, sister. I just won't dress up. That's BS." (That was a much milder version than what I actually said, mind you.) Then my wise younger sister told me I wasn't being a team player and that working with a group of people at a real big-girl job required bending like a willow, not standing firm and unmoving like a 400 year old giant sequoyah and after I told her to stick her willow where the sun don't shine, I realized she was right and set to work making my costume.
I hot glued raffia to the inside cuffs of a shirt I picked up at the Friendship House for $1.75, sewed patches all over my shirt and jeans, hot glued my finger to my jeans and tried my best to get into the spirit of things. Tater came over and hot glued the raffia to my hat and helped me figure out my makeup and such. I didn't do any homework, but I had a killer scarecrow costume. In fact, it was so killer that I won best costume at work. Yeah, I'm such an overachiever at stupid stuff that it's mind-boggling.
So now I'm about 150 problems behind in Algebra. I was behind before and am even behinder now. And I have literally - not exaggerating here - cried all day. If I am not yelling, I'm crying. Those are my two capabilities right now - screaming and sobbing. My kids are quite bewildered and my husband just sits in his recliner and tries not to breathe too loudly for fear I will murder him in his sleep. An hour and a half ago I was crying so hard I thought I was going to hyperventilate. I was talking on the phone with Tater while I was blubbering to beat the band and it hit me that I sounded like my five year old when she's throwing a tantrum. I am not only average, but I'm also a big baby. These are the things college has taught me, people - that I'm not as good as I thought I was and that I am not able to juggle my life as it is right now. I am going to get an F in multi-tasking this semester.
I have cried so much that my head feels like it's going to split wide open, my eyes are blurry and dry and there' s a chunk of my hair that is all stiff because after I hung up the phone with Tater, I laid my head down on the edge of the kitchen sink and sobbed some more. That is, until I realized that my hair was in the pan that was soaking in the sink. So I stood up and while I sniffed back four gallons of snot and blinked through my tear-speckled glasses, I dried the parts of my hair that had just marinated in chicken casserole and soap bubbles the best I could with a dish towel of questionable cleanliness.
Someday when I'm famous and happy and stable, will y'all remind me about this blog post? Just in case I ever get too big for my britches and think I'm all hot stuff or something? Because this is a pretty humbling moment.
Tater reminded me that at this point, a mere five weeks from the end of the semester, I just have to pass. I don't have to have a good grade, I just have to have a grade. She added that an F is also a grade. She also said that I'd be surprised at how many people have to take Algebra more than once - I told her I wouldn't be surprised at all. Then she told me that I truly do have a gift - a gift for writing, a gift with words, a gift that is the ability to put words into stories that entertain and make people laugh and someday that gift is going to take me somewhere... but that I did not, however, have a gift for doing math because I am a mathtard and there's nothing anyone can do about it. And then I laughed. And I realized that I have one awesome family.
My oldest daughter did a load of laundry on Thursday night. All by herself. My son hasn't had to be reminded twelve times to take out the trash all week. My youngest emptied the bathroom trashcan and only left half a dozen pieces of trash on the floor this time rather than the usual dozen and a half. My husband attempted to snake out the washing machine line that backs up when the washer drains; and even though he didn't succeed, he at least attempted it because it was adding to my frustration. At TotTwo's football game this afternoon my mom patted me on the leg - she didn't have to say anything, she just reminded me she was there. All of these people love me and know that I will someday be sane and back to my normal self.
Or else they're just trying to keep me calm until the guys with the white jackets arrive.
A mere one day past deadline, at 2am, I wearily turned in my barely six-page paper on "Gothicism in American Literature" which analyzed "The Fall of the House of Usher" by Poe. The instructor gives all assignments a one-week grace period at the price of a drop in one letter grade, but waived the grade penalty for this paper. I think I love her. The paper wasn't my best work, but at this point in the semester I have abandoned the Pollyanna -ish thoughts of maintaining the 3.75 GPA from last semester and I'm just shooting for passing all of the classes. At this point, Cs are SO acceptable. And I never, ever, EVER thought that thought would ever be in my head. Ever. I have become average and frankly, I'm pretty okay with it. In fact, below average is looking better and better.
I got behind in everything because of Halloween. I know, I know, blame it on an innocent pagan holiday and use it as a scapegoat, but seriously, it really was Halloween that made me behind. See, we were sent an email at work that "encouraged" us to dress up for Halloween and in my mind "encouraged" meant "show up in costume or else." I was going to go with my original plan of a loose interpretation of Tracey Turnblad from the movie Hairspray because well, fat chicks are pretty limited on costumes at Halloween time - I mean, dressing up like Paris Hilton is out, as well as dressing as a French maid or Catwoman. We're pretty much destined to be the Cookie Monsters, Grimaces and fat old ladies with walkers come October 31st. But the Friday before Halloween, the day I am off EVERY WEEK, the day that everyone in my department KNOWS I am not going to be in, it was decided that Child Welfare was going to all dress as scarecrows. 'Scuse me? Scarecrows? My initial response when the other aide told me on Monday - a mere TWO DAYS before Halloween - was, "I don't think so, sister. I just won't dress up. That's BS." (That was a much milder version than what I actually said, mind you.) Then my wise younger sister told me I wasn't being a team player and that working with a group of people at a real big-girl job required bending like a willow, not standing firm and unmoving like a 400 year old giant sequoyah and after I told her to stick her willow where the sun don't shine, I realized she was right and set to work making my costume.
I hot glued raffia to the inside cuffs of a shirt I picked up at the Friendship House for $1.75, sewed patches all over my shirt and jeans, hot glued my finger to my jeans and tried my best to get into the spirit of things. Tater came over and hot glued the raffia to my hat and helped me figure out my makeup and such. I didn't do any homework, but I had a killer scarecrow costume. In fact, it was so killer that I won best costume at work. Yeah, I'm such an overachiever at stupid stuff that it's mind-boggling.
So now I'm about 150 problems behind in Algebra. I was behind before and am even behinder now. And I have literally - not exaggerating here - cried all day. If I am not yelling, I'm crying. Those are my two capabilities right now - screaming and sobbing. My kids are quite bewildered and my husband just sits in his recliner and tries not to breathe too loudly for fear I will murder him in his sleep. An hour and a half ago I was crying so hard I thought I was going to hyperventilate. I was talking on the phone with Tater while I was blubbering to beat the band and it hit me that I sounded like my five year old when she's throwing a tantrum. I am not only average, but I'm also a big baby. These are the things college has taught me, people - that I'm not as good as I thought I was and that I am not able to juggle my life as it is right now. I am going to get an F in multi-tasking this semester.
I have cried so much that my head feels like it's going to split wide open, my eyes are blurry and dry and there' s a chunk of my hair that is all stiff because after I hung up the phone with Tater, I laid my head down on the edge of the kitchen sink and sobbed some more. That is, until I realized that my hair was in the pan that was soaking in the sink. So I stood up and while I sniffed back four gallons of snot and blinked through my tear-speckled glasses, I dried the parts of my hair that had just marinated in chicken casserole and soap bubbles the best I could with a dish towel of questionable cleanliness.
Someday when I'm famous and happy and stable, will y'all remind me about this blog post? Just in case I ever get too big for my britches and think I'm all hot stuff or something? Because this is a pretty humbling moment.
Tater reminded me that at this point, a mere five weeks from the end of the semester, I just have to pass. I don't have to have a good grade, I just have to have a grade. She added that an F is also a grade. She also said that I'd be surprised at how many people have to take Algebra more than once - I told her I wouldn't be surprised at all. Then she told me that I truly do have a gift - a gift for writing, a gift with words, a gift that is the ability to put words into stories that entertain and make people laugh and someday that gift is going to take me somewhere... but that I did not, however, have a gift for doing math because I am a mathtard and there's nothing anyone can do about it. And then I laughed. And I realized that I have one awesome family.
My oldest daughter did a load of laundry on Thursday night. All by herself. My son hasn't had to be reminded twelve times to take out the trash all week. My youngest emptied the bathroom trashcan and only left half a dozen pieces of trash on the floor this time rather than the usual dozen and a half. My husband attempted to snake out the washing machine line that backs up when the washer drains; and even though he didn't succeed, he at least attempted it because it was adding to my frustration. At TotTwo's football game this afternoon my mom patted me on the leg - she didn't have to say anything, she just reminded me she was there. All of these people love me and know that I will someday be sane and back to my normal self.
Or else they're just trying to keep me calm until the guys with the white jackets arrive.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Watch out for falling prices and fat women
Last Friday instead of spending my day off to work on homework, instead I went to town to help out my boss at the college. This week is the big annual fundraising auction and she needed some extra help with a few things. By the time the kids got home and Paul got home from cutting wood, I was in absolutely no mood whatsoever to cook or even slap some peanut butter and jelly together, so I picked up my purse and hollered, "I'm going to town for dinner!" and what do ya know, my whole family nearly stampeded to the truck.
After dinner, it was off to Wal*Mart because the kids all three needed gloves and sockhats for the football game we were going to the next night. Paul and I had been playing around with each other all evening and as we walked into the store, I stepped on the back of his heel. Now, mind you, I did it lightly and not enough to pull off his shoe - just enough to ya know, make him stumble a little. I giggled and he smirked and I knew by the look on his face, I was going to get a payback at some point. Sure enough, not too far into the store, he fell in step behind me and I kept looking back at him to make sure he was behaving. He had his hands in his pockets innocently enough and seemed not so very much mischevious, so I let my guard down.
Bad idea. Never trust a redneck in Wal*Mart. Ever. Even if you're married to that redneck. Wal*Mart is evil and causes those inside the store to become evil. Don't believe me? Ever taken your kids to Wal*Mart? Uh huh. I rest my case.
We were cutting through the women's socks, headed for the girl's department when the next thing I knew I was stumbling and heading for the floor. My dipshit husband waited until I was turning a corner around a rack of socks and stuck his big ol' redneck foot out in front of my clumsy self and I hit the ground. I am not a graceful person. I never have been. I can fall up stairs and can literally just fall down walking across a smooth floor and sadly, I do these things on a fairly regular basis. So whatever in the world made him think that sticking his foot in front of me would just cause me to perhaps stumble a little or even wobble a smidge is beyond me. I felt my balance just leave me - I mean, it just up and ran, what little balance I have - and my purse, which had been hanging on my arm, didn't help the situation. It pulled me towards the ground at warp speed and no matter how hard I tried to stop the downward motion, it was to no avail. I was on my knees in the sock section of Wal*Mart before I knew it. (Note to self: Clean out purse. That sucker's way too heavy.)
As with most people that fall in a public place, the thing that most hurt was my pride, although I instantly did a check to make sure my hip wasn't broken. (Hey, I ain't no spring chicken, ya know.) The kids all three gasped in horror at the sight of their mother on the ground, their mother who was refusing help from their father and cursing him as well. Kady, always the helper, quickly got over her shock and started picking up the scattered guts of my purse and Abby's inital gasp gave way to hysterical giggles. I think Sam was torn between helping and laughing and pointing. He's the middle child, bless his heart, he's never sure what to do.
Paul immediately apologized amid his gales of laughter and reached his hand out to help me up and I slapped his hand away and reached for the sock rack next to me. Of course, it wobbled precariously and Paul again reached out to help me up. He nearly lost a finger that time. I spat another curse or two at him and managed to get myself up out of the floor. Once I was on my feet again I attempted to kick my husband in the shin, but I was too discombobulated and he was too quick. I humph'd at him and turned around, purse again on my arm after KD fetched my scattered stuff and traipsed right past the scene of the crime and on to the girls' department. My face was still burning because, hey, I know that Wal*Mart has surveilance cameras and I just know there were a couple of guys back there that night replaying my fall over and over again. I imagined them going back to right when Paul stuck his foot out and then playing it back in slow motion and laughhhhhhing themselves to death. Fortunately, no associate ever came to check on me. Had I fallen at a casino, someone would've been there before I ever got up (right, Christy??), so thank God it was Wal*Mart.
Paul disappeared and I ended up having to call him to figure out where he was. It took awhile for me to call him though, because I was pretty pissed off that he tripped me in the first place and frankly, if he'd spontaneously combusted at that point, I'd have been okay with that. He was pretty meek and sweet the rest of the evening, so I forgave him, but have taken every opportunity I've been able to this week to mention spousal abuse and that I know the people who work in that department.
And to add insult to injury, what was supposed to be a shopping trip to buy three sock hats and six gloves turned into new tennis shoes for Sam, new boots for Kady, a new camouflage jacket for Paul (because he doesn't have near enough camouflage in his closet), new black pants for Kady and then well, duh, two shirts to go with the new black pants, plus a week's supply of Pop-Tarts and Eggos and a family size lasagna that would feed all of the Osmonds and the Dilly sextuplets, too. I am blaming the throbbing pain in my right knee for the overexpenditure that night.
When I was telling Tater about it later - something I was reluctant to do because my sister has been witness to many a fall by me and that woman simply cannot help but bust out into hysterical, incoherent laughter at the sight of me on the ground because I think she secretly delights in my misfortune and that she got the not-clumsy gene - she was red-faced from trying not to just bust a gut laughing. She asked, "What did you say when you fell??" I said, "I think I called him a stupid motherf***er" and Abby chimed in with, "Yep! That's exactly what you said, Momma!"
After dinner, it was off to Wal*Mart because the kids all three needed gloves and sockhats for the football game we were going to the next night. Paul and I had been playing around with each other all evening and as we walked into the store, I stepped on the back of his heel. Now, mind you, I did it lightly and not enough to pull off his shoe - just enough to ya know, make him stumble a little. I giggled and he smirked and I knew by the look on his face, I was going to get a payback at some point. Sure enough, not too far into the store, he fell in step behind me and I kept looking back at him to make sure he was behaving. He had his hands in his pockets innocently enough and seemed not so very much mischevious, so I let my guard down.
Bad idea. Never trust a redneck in Wal*Mart. Ever. Even if you're married to that redneck. Wal*Mart is evil and causes those inside the store to become evil. Don't believe me? Ever taken your kids to Wal*Mart? Uh huh. I rest my case.
We were cutting through the women's socks, headed for the girl's department when the next thing I knew I was stumbling and heading for the floor. My dipshit husband waited until I was turning a corner around a rack of socks and stuck his big ol' redneck foot out in front of my clumsy self and I hit the ground. I am not a graceful person. I never have been. I can fall up stairs and can literally just fall down walking across a smooth floor and sadly, I do these things on a fairly regular basis. So whatever in the world made him think that sticking his foot in front of me would just cause me to perhaps stumble a little or even wobble a smidge is beyond me. I felt my balance just leave me - I mean, it just up and ran, what little balance I have - and my purse, which had been hanging on my arm, didn't help the situation. It pulled me towards the ground at warp speed and no matter how hard I tried to stop the downward motion, it was to no avail. I was on my knees in the sock section of Wal*Mart before I knew it. (Note to self: Clean out purse. That sucker's way too heavy.)
As with most people that fall in a public place, the thing that most hurt was my pride, although I instantly did a check to make sure my hip wasn't broken. (Hey, I ain't no spring chicken, ya know.) The kids all three gasped in horror at the sight of their mother on the ground, their mother who was refusing help from their father and cursing him as well. Kady, always the helper, quickly got over her shock and started picking up the scattered guts of my purse and Abby's inital gasp gave way to hysterical giggles. I think Sam was torn between helping and laughing and pointing. He's the middle child, bless his heart, he's never sure what to do.
Paul immediately apologized amid his gales of laughter and reached his hand out to help me up and I slapped his hand away and reached for the sock rack next to me. Of course, it wobbled precariously and Paul again reached out to help me up. He nearly lost a finger that time. I spat another curse or two at him and managed to get myself up out of the floor. Once I was on my feet again I attempted to kick my husband in the shin, but I was too discombobulated and he was too quick. I humph'd at him and turned around, purse again on my arm after KD fetched my scattered stuff and traipsed right past the scene of the crime and on to the girls' department. My face was still burning because, hey, I know that Wal*Mart has surveilance cameras and I just know there were a couple of guys back there that night replaying my fall over and over again. I imagined them going back to right when Paul stuck his foot out and then playing it back in slow motion and laughhhhhhing themselves to death. Fortunately, no associate ever came to check on me. Had I fallen at a casino, someone would've been there before I ever got up (right, Christy??), so thank God it was Wal*Mart.
Paul disappeared and I ended up having to call him to figure out where he was. It took awhile for me to call him though, because I was pretty pissed off that he tripped me in the first place and frankly, if he'd spontaneously combusted at that point, I'd have been okay with that. He was pretty meek and sweet the rest of the evening, so I forgave him, but have taken every opportunity I've been able to this week to mention spousal abuse and that I know the people who work in that department.
And to add insult to injury, what was supposed to be a shopping trip to buy three sock hats and six gloves turned into new tennis shoes for Sam, new boots for Kady, a new camouflage jacket for Paul (because he doesn't have near enough camouflage in his closet), new black pants for Kady and then well, duh, two shirts to go with the new black pants, plus a week's supply of Pop-Tarts and Eggos and a family size lasagna that would feed all of the Osmonds and the Dilly sextuplets, too. I am blaming the throbbing pain in my right knee for the overexpenditure that night.
When I was telling Tater about it later - something I was reluctant to do because my sister has been witness to many a fall by me and that woman simply cannot help but bust out into hysterical, incoherent laughter at the sight of me on the ground because I think she secretly delights in my misfortune and that she got the not-clumsy gene - she was red-faced from trying not to just bust a gut laughing. She asked, "What did you say when you fell??" I said, "I think I called him a stupid motherf***er" and Abby chimed in with, "Yep! That's exactly what you said, Momma!"
Sunday, October 28, 2007
My life is a Reba video
This song was released in 1991, which was my senior year. Seeing as how I used to have GIGANTIC Reba hair, it goes without saying that I was a Reba fan back when she had a last name. I used to tear up when I'd watch the video, but now I bawl like a baby. I think I just needed a good cathartic cry today and man, did I get it when I watched the video. Twice.
Little did I know that in just 16 years after its release, this video would pretty much be like putting a video camera in my life for a week or so.
There are lots of similarities and a few differences, though:
Of course, my husband wouldn't call me as I was leaving my busy job at a cafe, he'd call me on my cell phone at my busy job at DHS. Or my other busy job at the college. And chances are, the school would call me first anyway.
I know exactly the emotion she portrays when she walks past the cute young thang in a tight skirt and looks down at her own jeans and "mom" shirt and wonders when she started looking so frumpy. And when did I become so old?
I know what it likes to have the instructor call you out in class by your last name. However, when he hollered out, "Hoover! What's the answer?" I didn't come back with a correct answer - I simply blurted out after a few seconds of silence with "I have no freakin' idea."
I, too, literally turn out the lone desk lamp long after the rest of my family is asleep, however usually Paul is asleep on the couch because the lone desk lamp is here in my office, which is part of our bedroom. He can handle the light, it's the perpetual pecking of the keyboard that drives him batty. If he has happened to make it to the bed, I slide into that bed as carefully as I can - I'm not like Reba who actually wanted to wake her husband up. By the time I slide quietly into bed it's usually 2 or 3am and no way am I puttin' out at that hour.
Last week, Paul and TotOne had brought their usual banter out here to my office for some reason. At that same time, Abby was checking her email on the desktop next to me and Kady was in the floor coloring. Paul and TotOne managed to knock over an entire pile of precariously stacked papers in what I call "my elaborate filing system" and as I sighed heavily and bent over to pick them up I thought of Reba in this video and got a serious case of the giggles right after I blurted out, "I don't need anymore accidents in my life!" Paul and the kids all stopped and looked at me like I was insane.
My husband hasn't had to use a hair dryer to dry a soggy research paper, but he has cleaned soggy, rotting mouse out from under our refrigerator - and he did not use a hair dryer, he used a Wal*Mart sack. In my opinion, that totally trumps the job Huey Lewis undertook in the video.
I have fallen asleep while my daughter has read to me. I feel horrible when I do it, but it's literally the only time I am not sitting at my desk typing or writing or cursing wildly and well, I am up till 2am every morning and up again at 5:45. I'm kinda tired lately. Hearing Kady read about Nat the fat cat sitting on a mat while Dan and Jan bat in a hat is strangely relaxing to me these days.
I have yet to have an instructor tell me I have a "remarkable grasp of the subject" because well, for one thing the one class where I actually see an instructor, I don't have a grasp - remarkable or otherwise - on the subject. Last semester, though, the newspaper advisor told me I had "true, honest talent" for writing. So I'll take that as close.
And while Huey Lewis is a fine lookin' man, my husband is way cuter. And he smells good. And he kisses my forehead if he leaves for work and I'm still in bed. He takes care of the kids on "Pizza Thursday" while I'm in class (They have literally eaten frozen pizzas every Thursday night since the semester started) and he makes sure they read out loud, practice sight and spelling words, brush their teeth and don't fight too much. He also took them for four hours yesterday so I could work on a paper.
Huey Lewis and Reba have nothin' on us.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Stewin' in his own juices
I had to take Abby to Tulsa today to the dentist because that blasted headgear band fell off of her molar again. We flew back towards home to drop her off at Little Theatre practice where her daddy would pick her up later, then Kady, Sam and I headed toward town. We made a stop at Mom's office to partake of her fax machine because I needed to fax in an application for something that will hopefully make me some extra money soon (Keep those fingers crossed, friends!). After that we went to the college library because four of us in that dreaded Macro class were going to study together in hopes that one of us knew just what in the heck is going on in the class.
The four of us included two actual college-age girls, a guy my age and me. Guess who showed up - me and ol' Stan. You can tell who the non-traditional students are because he's brought his kids to class a few times and I had mine with me tonight to study. The other two girls never showed, so poor Stan and I sat at that table and whined and griped and well, it was a case of the blind leading the blind. We were really hoping that the girl who sits on the front row and never has that clueless look that I sport during classtime would be there, but I guess she has a life. So he called his wife to see if she'd order a pizza that he could pick up, I called my husband to tell him I had Arby's coupons and was taking orders, tried to convince Sam that a book on the human body in the college library wasn't really 3rd grade reading material and then we went our merry ways, neither of us knowing any more than we did when we got there.
When I called Paul to take his Arby's order he sounded out of breath, so when I got in the van I called him back and asked if he was okay. He replied with a winded, "I am trying to find that smell." He said it was so bad tonight that his eyes were watering. He and Abby pulled out the dishwasher, pulled pots, pans and cleaning supplies out of cabinets looking for that smell. He found a pretty good-sized hole in the sheetrock in the back of the cabinet next to the fridge and went from there. He undid a wire hanger and hooked it and said, "I'm gonna see if I can pull that dead [expletive] out of there."
He pulled out a rat-sized ribcage and some nest. Apparently it's the remainder of the skeletal rat from last time. Whew. It was so decayed there was no smell. So he pulled out the fridge and gagged the smell was so bad, but there was no mouse visible.
He pulled the back off the fridge and found it.
It was a itty bitty, teeny tiny little mouse who had innocently crawled up under the refrigerator to get warm on a cold fall evening and well, ya know, the fridge was making a really funny noise last week......guess it was cuisinarting our little rodent friend.
Then, as if mouse dying up inside the inner-workings of the fridge wasn't bad enough, when he died he fell into a little pool of heated water and well, we were simmering some mousepourri.
The smell was so bad because IT WAS COOKING.
We cooked a mouse under our fridge. We aren't like our traditional redneck kin who like a good pot of possum stew when the weather turns cold - nope, we like us some mouse stew. (Sam threw the mouse stew line at me. She's also showering obsessively because of our conversation, bless her heart.)
When the kids and I walked in the door after a run to Wal*Mart to buy steel wool and poison, it smelled pleasantly of bleach and some lemony cleaner and not dead mouse. My husband is so nice sometimes- he knew I'd be utterly freaked out, so he cleaned the entire kitchen, vacuumed the mouse turds out from the cabinet that has been empty for two years because it's the "mouse cabinet" and I refused to use it until he remedied that problem. Well, there is enough steel wool behind my kitchen cabinets now that even Super Mouse couldn't get through and the many, many packets of poison Paul threw back there will prevent Super Mouse from even trying.
I *heart* my husband.
Abby called me at one point and said, "Mom, it's bad. Real bad. The kitchen is a disaster and Dad just puked over the fence." I said, "He puked over the fence? Literally?" She replied, "Yep. He took out that rotten wet mouse and puked just as he threw it."
Have I mentioned that I *heart* him?
The four of us included two actual college-age girls, a guy my age and me. Guess who showed up - me and ol' Stan. You can tell who the non-traditional students are because he's brought his kids to class a few times and I had mine with me tonight to study. The other two girls never showed, so poor Stan and I sat at that table and whined and griped and well, it was a case of the blind leading the blind. We were really hoping that the girl who sits on the front row and never has that clueless look that I sport during classtime would be there, but I guess she has a life. So he called his wife to see if she'd order a pizza that he could pick up, I called my husband to tell him I had Arby's coupons and was taking orders, tried to convince Sam that a book on the human body in the college library wasn't really 3rd grade reading material and then we went our merry ways, neither of us knowing any more than we did when we got there.
When I called Paul to take his Arby's order he sounded out of breath, so when I got in the van I called him back and asked if he was okay. He replied with a winded, "I am trying to find that smell." He said it was so bad tonight that his eyes were watering. He and Abby pulled out the dishwasher, pulled pots, pans and cleaning supplies out of cabinets looking for that smell. He found a pretty good-sized hole in the sheetrock in the back of the cabinet next to the fridge and went from there. He undid a wire hanger and hooked it and said, "I'm gonna see if I can pull that dead [expletive] out of there."
He pulled out a rat-sized ribcage and some nest. Apparently it's the remainder of the skeletal rat from last time. Whew. It was so decayed there was no smell. So he pulled out the fridge and gagged the smell was so bad, but there was no mouse visible.
He pulled the back off the fridge and found it.
It was a itty bitty, teeny tiny little mouse who had innocently crawled up under the refrigerator to get warm on a cold fall evening and well, ya know, the fridge was making a really funny noise last week......guess it was cuisinarting our little rodent friend.
Then, as if mouse dying up inside the inner-workings of the fridge wasn't bad enough, when he died he fell into a little pool of heated water and well, we were simmering some mousepourri.
The smell was so bad because IT WAS COOKING.
We cooked a mouse under our fridge. We aren't like our traditional redneck kin who like a good pot of possum stew when the weather turns cold - nope, we like us some mouse stew. (Sam threw the mouse stew line at me. She's also showering obsessively because of our conversation, bless her heart.)
When the kids and I walked in the door after a run to Wal*Mart to buy steel wool and poison, it smelled pleasantly of bleach and some lemony cleaner and not dead mouse. My husband is so nice sometimes- he knew I'd be utterly freaked out, so he cleaned the entire kitchen, vacuumed the mouse turds out from the cabinet that has been empty for two years because it's the "mouse cabinet" and I refused to use it until he remedied that problem. Well, there is enough steel wool behind my kitchen cabinets now that even Super Mouse couldn't get through and the many, many packets of poison Paul threw back there will prevent Super Mouse from even trying.
I *heart* my husband.
Abby called me at one point and said, "Mom, it's bad. Real bad. The kitchen is a disaster and Dad just puked over the fence." I said, "He puked over the fence? Literally?" She replied, "Yep. He took out that rotten wet mouse and puked just as he threw it."
Have I mentioned that I *heart* him?
This smells all too familiar
Those of you who are longtime readers will remember the Great Yellowjacket Invasion of 2005. Those of you who are new to the place, you need to go here and read this post. It's long, but OH so interesting and I guarantee you will end up shuddering and totally freaked out before you finish reading it. Seriously, go read it.
Well, about 4 or so days ago Paul commented on a funky smell in the kitchen. The kids and I didn't smell it and just figured he was retarded, as we do on a fairly regular basis. The next morning, though, I smelled a smell. Kind of a "there's something funky in the trashcan smell" and had Sam take out both trashes. Then I bleached both trashcans. When I walked in the door after work that day it hit me like a ton of bricks. No kidding, my nasal passages were assaulted by a familiar smell - dead mouse.
Those of you who are country people know that mice tend to migrate into people houses when the weather gets cold or after you bale hay or burn off the field. It's their ultimate revenge for you screwing up their meadow homes and living high on the hog in a house that no one bales yearly. The Great Mouse Migration every fall is what forces us to keep a herd of cats here at our house even though Paul and I don't like cats. We have to keep cats here or else the mice would take over. Keeping cats is a small price to pay in order to keep a family of mice from making us their bitches. Oh and I have I mentioned that I am FREAKIN' SCARED TO DEATH OF MICE?????
But having grown up in the country surrounded on all four sides by hay meadow and having lived in our current 40 acre country estate for 6 1/2 years now, I am all too accustomed to having the occasional mouse in the house. Now that we have Guido and the Cat Mob here to make 'em an offer they can't refuse, we usually only catch one or two a year.
That being said, remember when we found the skeletal rat behind the dishwasher? You don't? Well, I must share that link, too. (You have to scroll down to the paragraph that starts "Saturday afternoon")
Now, with all this background information you have acquired in the last minute or so, you are probably thinking what I'm thinking. (No, Pinky, it doesn't require putting a tutu on a ground squirrel) (If you aren't a fan of The Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain, you will SO not get that last statement) You are probably doing mental math and figuring out that we've been smelling dead mouse for over four days now and dead mouse usually only smells bad for a day or two, three tops. They're pretty small, ya know - lots less to decay. So the longer the smell lingers, one would assume the bigger the rodent.
I think we've got another dead rat in the wall. Read that again and then run around your house with your hands on your face like that Home Alone brat and scream bloody murder. That's what I did when the realization hit me.
That's also why I beat the covers on my bed with my son's baseball bat last night before I would get into it, also why I stomp when I walk throughout my house, shouting the entire time, "IF THERE ARE ANY OTHER RATS LURKING IN MY HOUSE, I HAVE A GUN AND KNOW HOW TO USE IT" and trust me when I say, I would not even hesitate to blow a freakin' hole in the floor if I saw a rat scurrying across it. Not for an instant.
I'm not talking about alley rats, junk yard rats, gutter rats or even 'hood rats that would automatically lead you to believe that we are dirty, trashy people - no, I'm talking about field rats. Big, fat, juicy field rats that want to get warm just as much as their smaller counterparts, the field mice, do. They're just bigger mice. Really bigger. Although, not as big as the ginormous rat in the movie Of Unknown Origin that my girlfriends and I watched when we were in the 5th or 6th grade. I hope.
I have burned through an entire large candle from White Barn Candle Company, used over half a bottle of scented oil in my little tealight burner from Bath and Body, I have even pulled out old Home Interiors scented votives that I think we got as wedding presents 15 years ago. My house is a combination of caramel, cinnamon, spiced pumpkin, country harvest apple, mulberry, vanilla and dead rat. Sadly, we're growing accustomed to it due to nasal fatigue and the fact that our olfactory senses are overloaded from the constant barrage of fragrance, but my mother-in-law walked in the front door last night and immediately said, "Eww, smells like dead rat in here."
I'd almost welcome a yellowjacket nest at this point. And believe me, the fear that we have another yellowjacket nest has crossed my mind more than once, but we haven't seen any flying, stinging missiles of doom around the house, so I think it's just a case of dead rat in the wall.
"Just a case of dead rat in the wall" - notice how calm and blasse' that sounds? Well, trust me, I had just finished running around the room with my baseball bat before I typed that.
Well, about 4 or so days ago Paul commented on a funky smell in the kitchen. The kids and I didn't smell it and just figured he was retarded, as we do on a fairly regular basis. The next morning, though, I smelled a smell. Kind of a "there's something funky in the trashcan smell" and had Sam take out both trashes. Then I bleached both trashcans. When I walked in the door after work that day it hit me like a ton of bricks. No kidding, my nasal passages were assaulted by a familiar smell - dead mouse.
Those of you who are country people know that mice tend to migrate into people houses when the weather gets cold or after you bale hay or burn off the field. It's their ultimate revenge for you screwing up their meadow homes and living high on the hog in a house that no one bales yearly. The Great Mouse Migration every fall is what forces us to keep a herd of cats here at our house even though Paul and I don't like cats. We have to keep cats here or else the mice would take over. Keeping cats is a small price to pay in order to keep a family of mice from making us their bitches. Oh and I have I mentioned that I am FREAKIN' SCARED TO DEATH OF MICE?????
But having grown up in the country surrounded on all four sides by hay meadow and having lived in our current 40 acre country estate for 6 1/2 years now, I am all too accustomed to having the occasional mouse in the house. Now that we have Guido and the Cat Mob here to make 'em an offer they can't refuse, we usually only catch one or two a year.
That being said, remember when we found the skeletal rat behind the dishwasher? You don't? Well, I must share that link, too. (You have to scroll down to the paragraph that starts "Saturday afternoon")
Now, with all this background information you have acquired in the last minute or so, you are probably thinking what I'm thinking. (No, Pinky, it doesn't require putting a tutu on a ground squirrel) (If you aren't a fan of The Animaniacs and Pinky and the Brain, you will SO not get that last statement) You are probably doing mental math and figuring out that we've been smelling dead mouse for over four days now and dead mouse usually only smells bad for a day or two, three tops. They're pretty small, ya know - lots less to decay. So the longer the smell lingers, one would assume the bigger the rodent.
I think we've got another dead rat in the wall. Read that again and then run around your house with your hands on your face like that Home Alone brat and scream bloody murder. That's what I did when the realization hit me.
That's also why I beat the covers on my bed with my son's baseball bat last night before I would get into it, also why I stomp when I walk throughout my house, shouting the entire time, "IF THERE ARE ANY OTHER RATS LURKING IN MY HOUSE, I HAVE A GUN AND KNOW HOW TO USE IT" and trust me when I say, I would not even hesitate to blow a freakin' hole in the floor if I saw a rat scurrying across it. Not for an instant.
I'm not talking about alley rats, junk yard rats, gutter rats or even 'hood rats that would automatically lead you to believe that we are dirty, trashy people - no, I'm talking about field rats. Big, fat, juicy field rats that want to get warm just as much as their smaller counterparts, the field mice, do. They're just bigger mice. Really bigger. Although, not as big as the ginormous rat in the movie Of Unknown Origin that my girlfriends and I watched when we were in the 5th or 6th grade. I hope.
I have burned through an entire large candle from White Barn Candle Company, used over half a bottle of scented oil in my little tealight burner from Bath and Body, I have even pulled out old Home Interiors scented votives that I think we got as wedding presents 15 years ago. My house is a combination of caramel, cinnamon, spiced pumpkin, country harvest apple, mulberry, vanilla and dead rat. Sadly, we're growing accustomed to it due to nasal fatigue and the fact that our olfactory senses are overloaded from the constant barrage of fragrance, but my mother-in-law walked in the front door last night and immediately said, "Eww, smells like dead rat in here."
I'd almost welcome a yellowjacket nest at this point. And believe me, the fear that we have another yellowjacket nest has crossed my mind more than once, but we haven't seen any flying, stinging missiles of doom around the house, so I think it's just a case of dead rat in the wall.
"Just a case of dead rat in the wall" - notice how calm and blasse' that sounds? Well, trust me, I had just finished running around the room with my baseball bat before I typed that.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
FOUR!
Four Jobs I’ve Held
1. Receptionist
2. Infant/Toddler teacher in a daycare
3. Cocktail waitress
4. Babysittin' fool
Four Films I Could Watch Over and Over
1. The 40-Year-Old Virgin
2. 10 Things I Hate About You
3. Steel Magnolias
4. Napoleon Dynamite
Four TV Shows I Watch
1. LOST (I am so totally ready for the new season...alas, I still have like, 4 months to go...*sigh*
2. Glenn Beck
3.
4.
Ummm.....how utterly sad is it that I literally don't have time to watch TV anymore? And technically, I don't watch all of Glenn Beck because I usually doze off every night because I watch the late, late run of it.
Four Places I’ve Lived
1. Rural Miami, OK
2. Wyandotte, OK
3. Stillwater, OK (Briefly. Very briefly.)
4. Miami, OK
Four Favorite Foods
1. Meatloaf - burned around the edges, preferably
2. Mom's Chicken Casserole
3. Gardetto's Original
4. Shrimp Alfredo
Four Websites I Visit Daily
1. Gmail
2. NEO's WebCT site
3. ALEKS (for my Algebra class)
4. Goinglikesixty.com (Or at least, almost every day)
Four Favorite Colors
1. Navy
2. Brown
3. Pink
4. Purple
Four Places I Would Love to be Right Now
1. In bed
2. Disney World
3. On the Tower of Terror at Disney/MGM
4. Visiting Cousin Stacey
Four Names You Love, But Could/Would Not Use for Your Children
1. Hannah - I wanted to name Kady Hannah so badly, but Paul said Hannah Hoover was just too much H for his taste.
2. Toby - This was what I wanted to name Kady had she turned out to be a boy, but Paul said he couldn't get Kunta Kente from Roots out of his head when he heard it.
3 and 4. Brad and Kelly - Paul was engaged to a Kelly and I dated a Brad for most of my high school years. Neither of us would be able to get past the baggage associated with either.
Four People I Tag
I'm not tagging anyone. I'm just avoiding reading Rip Van Winkle.
1. Receptionist
2. Infant/Toddler teacher in a daycare
3. Cocktail waitress
4. Babysittin' fool
Four Films I Could Watch Over and Over
1. The 40-Year-Old Virgin
2. 10 Things I Hate About You
3. Steel Magnolias
4. Napoleon Dynamite
Four TV Shows I Watch
1. LOST (I am so totally ready for the new season...alas, I still have like, 4 months to go...*sigh*
2. Glenn Beck
3.
4.
Ummm.....how utterly sad is it that I literally don't have time to watch TV anymore? And technically, I don't watch all of Glenn Beck because I usually doze off every night because I watch the late, late run of it.
Four Places I’ve Lived
1. Rural Miami, OK
2. Wyandotte, OK
3. Stillwater, OK (Briefly. Very briefly.)
4. Miami, OK
Four Favorite Foods
1. Meatloaf - burned around the edges, preferably
2. Mom's Chicken Casserole
3. Gardetto's Original
4. Shrimp Alfredo
Four Websites I Visit Daily
1. Gmail
2. NEO's WebCT site
3. ALEKS (for my Algebra class)
4. Goinglikesixty.com (Or at least, almost every day)
Four Favorite Colors
1. Navy
2. Brown
3. Pink
4. Purple
Four Places I Would Love to be Right Now
1. In bed
2. Disney World
3. On the Tower of Terror at Disney/MGM
4. Visiting Cousin Stacey
Four Names You Love, But Could/Would Not Use for Your Children
1. Hannah - I wanted to name Kady Hannah so badly, but Paul said Hannah Hoover was just too much H for his taste.
2. Toby - This was what I wanted to name Kady had she turned out to be a boy, but Paul said he couldn't get Kunta Kente from Roots out of his head when he heard it.
3 and 4. Brad and Kelly - Paul was engaged to a Kelly and I dated a Brad for most of my high school years. Neither of us would be able to get past the baggage associated with either.
Four People I Tag
I'm not tagging anyone. I'm just avoiding reading Rip Van Winkle.
Can I whittle wood with you?
(Remember that line from Son In Law with Pauly Shore, one of the funniest movies ever made? As annoying as he was, you gotta admit, Pauly was a hoot. I'd have totally dated him.)
Okay, since my last post:
* I have missed yet another day of work with a puking child (not a strange child, mind you, but one I have genetic claim to, and she didn't barf on the couch either).
* I have found out that there has been a confirmed case of Mono in my Kindergartener's class.
* I have wished I still had a prescription for Xanax because of said case of Mono.
* I have started taking child welfare/abuse referrals at my main job, something which makes my stomach hurt, which also makes me realize even more (as if there was doubt) that I do NOT want to be a social worker. The job I'm doing is fine, I just really don't want to go into social work - I am not cut out for that. I admire anyone who is. Wow.
* I have called my daughter's PA because she woke up Thursday morning with a sore throat, one of the main symptoms of Mono, but was told that even if it IS Mono there's not a dang thing they can do about it and dang, do I hate viruses because I like utter germ annihilation, not wait-and-let-it-ride medicine.
* I bought my son $58 John Deere brand cowboy boots because my husband said if I bought him cheap plastic pointy-toed cowboy boots from Payless again this year he will begin divorce proceedings AND report me for child abuse.
* I have cried on my husband's shoulder four times.
* I have realized that he's not such a bad guy and I love him more every day.
* I have come to terms with the fact that I am more than likely going to fail this next Macro test and I'm actually borderline okay with it because everyone else in the class is going to fail it, too, just ask them.
* I have realized that I still want to write with all my heart, but until a book deal falls from the sky, I want to pursue a career in PR. Which is weird because I don't like people. But good because a MassComm degree will get me there. Eventually.
* I have gone from bawling my head off over my mother and sister and wishing I could fix all their problems to wanting to strangle them both in mere minutes.
* I have bought myself my very own pair of work gloves because the kids and I are helping Paul haul wood today. Every year when we haul wood, Paul will dig a nasty pair of gloves from the bed of the pickup, one of which is usually a camouflage winter glove and the other is a leather-palm work glove and have God knows what lurking down in the fingers, toss them at me when I start whining about my hands getting dirty or that I might break a nail and well, I simply cannot work under those conditions. So this year, I bought my own gloves and will haul and stack wood and at least match while I do it. I'm also hiding them when I'm done so Paul can't add them to the collection in the pickup bed.
* I have gotten my mid-term grades in three of four classes - One A (Computers), One B (AmerLit) and One S (Algebra). I'm hoping that S still stands for "satisfactory" and not "sucks". There hasn't been any more gradework in Macro, so I guess the course grade still stands at B. Well, it will until next Thursday when it will plummet pitifully.
* I have partnered with my husband in deciding on whether all five children plus the two of us will fit in the bathtub when the tornado comes. We had Tater's two kids Wednesday night and one heckuva storm rolled in with crazy lightning, wind and tornadic-like stuff. Fortunately, we were saved from being strewn off to Oz and instead spent the night without power and no tornado. Whew. I like a good storm, but with two kids, Paul and I have a pretty good chance of holding onto all three - with five kids, we are short one arm.
* I have realized that my youngest daughter is a painfully accurate version of me. My gosh, that child cries at the drop of a hat, freaks out over the simplest of things and has a tendency to over-apply blush. Just like her momma.
Here are a few pics from the Corn Maze last Sunday -
My big girl at the pumpkin patch.
Tater's friend Justin decided to break Sam of his whining to "go REALLY high" on the swing....
Okay, since my last post:
* I have missed yet another day of work with a puking child (not a strange child, mind you, but one I have genetic claim to, and she didn't barf on the couch either).
* I have found out that there has been a confirmed case of Mono in my Kindergartener's class.
* I have wished I still had a prescription for Xanax because of said case of Mono.
* I have started taking child welfare/abuse referrals at my main job, something which makes my stomach hurt, which also makes me realize even more (as if there was doubt) that I do NOT want to be a social worker. The job I'm doing is fine, I just really don't want to go into social work - I am not cut out for that. I admire anyone who is. Wow.
* I have called my daughter's PA because she woke up Thursday morning with a sore throat, one of the main symptoms of Mono, but was told that even if it IS Mono there's not a dang thing they can do about it and dang, do I hate viruses because I like utter germ annihilation, not wait-and-let-it-ride medicine.
* I bought my son $58 John Deere brand cowboy boots because my husband said if I bought him cheap plastic pointy-toed cowboy boots from Payless again this year he will begin divorce proceedings AND report me for child abuse.
* I have cried on my husband's shoulder four times.
* I have realized that he's not such a bad guy and I love him more every day.
* I have come to terms with the fact that I am more than likely going to fail this next Macro test and I'm actually borderline okay with it because everyone else in the class is going to fail it, too, just ask them.
* I have realized that I still want to write with all my heart, but until a book deal falls from the sky, I want to pursue a career in PR. Which is weird because I don't like people. But good because a MassComm degree will get me there. Eventually.
* I have gone from bawling my head off over my mother and sister and wishing I could fix all their problems to wanting to strangle them both in mere minutes.
* I have bought myself my very own pair of work gloves because the kids and I are helping Paul haul wood today. Every year when we haul wood, Paul will dig a nasty pair of gloves from the bed of the pickup, one of which is usually a camouflage winter glove and the other is a leather-palm work glove and have God knows what lurking down in the fingers, toss them at me when I start whining about my hands getting dirty or that I might break a nail and well, I simply cannot work under those conditions. So this year, I bought my own gloves and will haul and stack wood and at least match while I do it. I'm also hiding them when I'm done so Paul can't add them to the collection in the pickup bed.
* I have gotten my mid-term grades in three of four classes - One A (Computers), One B (AmerLit) and One S (Algebra). I'm hoping that S still stands for "satisfactory" and not "sucks". There hasn't been any more gradework in Macro, so I guess the course grade still stands at B. Well, it will until next Thursday when it will plummet pitifully.
* I have partnered with my husband in deciding on whether all five children plus the two of us will fit in the bathtub when the tornado comes. We had Tater's two kids Wednesday night and one heckuva storm rolled in with crazy lightning, wind and tornadic-like stuff. Fortunately, we were saved from being strewn off to Oz and instead spent the night without power and no tornado. Whew. I like a good storm, but with two kids, Paul and I have a pretty good chance of holding onto all three - with five kids, we are short one arm.
* I have realized that my youngest daughter is a painfully accurate version of me. My gosh, that child cries at the drop of a hat, freaks out over the simplest of things and has a tendency to over-apply blush. Just like her momma.
Here are a few pics from the Corn Maze last Sunday -
My big girl at the pumpkin patch.
Tater's friend Justin decided to break Sam of his whining to "go REALLY high" on the swing....
Click on the pic to get the full effect of the look on that boy's face! Then also notice the look on Justin's - totally takin' it all in stride. Those two cracked me up all night - Sam insisted on calling him "JT" and Justin's middle name is Allen. We're not sure where JT came from - I guess Sam just thought it sounded cool.
This was pretty much how Kady spent the entire afternoon and evening - bawling, whining, snotting and just generally making us all not like her very much.
I was totally expecting an asthma attack at some point because the only time she acts that bad is right before she starts wheezing.
Unfortunately, it turns out she was just being a brat
Oh look! A brief moment of smiling from my youngest! (Only because she wanted to go get her "pitchew taken wight now befowe I cwy again, Momma" and we caught her in that brief moment of she totally got her way because we were all just so sick of her.)
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'Pert Near Five Years
It's been nearly five years since my last post, and even that was a repost from my newspaper column. I think you can attribute it to wri...
